William Boyd - Bamboo - Essays and Criticism

On the morning after our screening, Daniel Craig, Paul Nicholls, James D’Arcy and I reported for duty on the Majestic Hotel beach. We were all — how shall I put it? — a little fragile and unanimously decided a round of Bloody Marys was the best way to get our press call off to a good start.

The Trench is a film about the forty-eight hours before the Battle of the Somme in 1916, concentrating on a group of very young soldiers waiting to go over the top to what is almost certain death. The first day of the Battle of the Somme was the bloodiest day of slaughter—60,000 killed and wounded — in the entire history of the British Army. Daniel Craig drily made the point to me, as we were whizzing between TV crews and journalists, the sun shining, people sunbathing, yachts in the bay, drink-toting waiters running around, that there was a certain baleful incongruity about where we were and what we were talking about. He was right, of course, but at the same time in that realization all the absurdity and the craziness of the festival coalesced. Boys trying to come to terms with the prospect of their imminent death in 1916; young actors trying to explain the import of all this to a Brazilian film crew on a jetty in the sun on the Mediterranean shore in 1999. It was good to note the farcical nature of the juxtaposition. But we carried on. We were in high spirits. The screening had gone well: people clapped, people cried, people stumbled out wordless. That was Cannes, Baby.

1999

Recently, a wily old producer told me in all seriousness that, in his opinion, Hollywood should be looked at purely and simply as a river of gold, endlessly flowing; all one has to do is, from time to time, stroll down to the river bank, reach in and grab a handful of money. In its single-mindedness, its brutal candour, this theory seems reasonably astute. And it is true that, for a small minority, Hollywood and the movie business are indeed a source of endless, profligate wealth. Of course, this theory only functions if you have already succeeded, and it could be said to be true of any successful person in any successful enterprise (banking, plastic surgery, hamburger franchises, undertaking). But it is worth recalling that what takes place in Hollywood is the creation of an art form, not, as might reasonably be thought, drug-dealing or trading pork-belly futures — yet, of the seven arts, only the cinema proffers the alluring, tantalizing prospect of a permanent Klondike.

There is another, related theory of Hollywood: “Anyone can be a film producer.” All it requires is the assertion, “I am a film producer” and — bingo — you are one. All you really need is a business card, a telephone and the vaguest idea of the film you plan to “produce” and a degree of self-confidence coupled with social plausibility. Which brings us to Don Simpson and Charles Fleming’s book about him and the environment that allowed him first to flourish and then to self-destruct.

Simpson was the co-producer of a series of loud, action-packed, mind-numbingly simple Hollywood films that made vast sums of money: Flashdance, Beverly Hills Cop (and BHC II), Top Gun, Days of Thunder, Crimson Tide and a few others which will inevitably slide into movie oblivion. In the 1980s, together with his partner Jerry Bruckheimer, he was regarded as the most successful independent producer in town, and was royally rewarded (formidable perks aside, they each received, at the apex of their careers, a fee of $9 million per film). Simpson was a small, aggressive man with a tendency to obesity, who played the “bad cop” in the partnership. Bruckheimer produced the films (did the work) while Don hogged the limelight. What is remarkable about Fleming’s racily written, but diligent, account of Simpson’s short life is that, try as one might, one can perceive nothing remarkable about it. You don’t have to live in Hollywood to be a scumbag; you don’t have to be a film producer to be a cocaine addict and an S&M enthusiast; you don’t have to have untold millions in the bank to be consumed with self-loathing and behave like a spoilt child (Simpson, staying in a hotel in Hawaii, would call his assistant in Los Angeles and get her to order room service for him). The world is full of such people and sometimes, unfortunately, such tendencies congregate in one body. But, if they do, is it necessary to chronicle their inadequacies over 300 pages?

Flashdance, Beverly Hills Cop, Top Gun … money and power seemed mainly to fuel Simpson’s vices: for cocaine, for expensive call girls, for boozing, bingeing and bad behaviour and, inevitably, more and more rehab. When Days of Thunder (Tom Cruise in racing cars) went massively over-budget, the magic seemed to leave the Simpson-Bruckheimer formula. They moved their deal to Disney. There was still a ton of money swilling around but no films got made. What’s a guy to do? Some plastic surgery, more hookers, massive weight gain, buy a Ferrari, porn videos, three jars of peanut butter a day, rehab, cocaine, more hookers… The litany of Simpson’s relentless over-indulgence gets boring. Even when, at the end of his life, in an effort to alleviate his addiction to illegal drugs, Simpson became addicted instead to prescription drugs (he was spending $75,000 a month in pharmacies), the ironies accruing around his sad, over-privileged existence provoke a kind of weary pity rather than moral outrage.

High Concept is the book’s title and it is suggested that Simpson (and Bruckheimer) invented the genre — if that is not too grandiose a label for what the veteran producer Dick Sylbert has called extended MTV videos: “It’s ‘rock and roll in a steel mill,’ or ‘rock and roll in a jet airplane,’ or ‘rock and roll in a race car.’” The “high-concept” film is one where the “idea is king,” as Simpson once eloquently phrased it. One of his champions put it this way: “Don made up this logarithm [sic] . There is the hot first act with an exciting incident and the second act with the crisis and the dark bad moments in which our hero is challenged, and the third act with the triumphant moment and the redemption and the freeze frame ending.” Although Simpson claimed to be the only begetter of this category of film he had, and has, a host of angry rivals who say they got there first.

There are many wealthy, powerful people in Hollywood, far more famous than Simpson ever was, who behave just as badly as he did, who have the same bizarre sexual proclivities and consume equal amounts of drugs. Charles Fleming’s wider point in this book is that there is something inherent in the culture of Hollywood which makes such excesses tolerable, inevitable or even encouraged. My own hunch — my theory — is that it is not so much the fault of Hollywood as that of human nature. Put vulnerable, dysfunctional people in positions of immense power, provide them with every available venal temptation, give them more money than they know what to do with and there’s a fair chance they will go off the rails. But, despite the horror stories, it should be stated that the Hollywood film business is also populated by many hardworking, intelligent, honourable souls who don’t do drugs, and whose idea of an evening out does not include weird sex with a $10,000-a-night call girl. Simpson was not one of these, but his story is ultimately banal because he personally achieved nothing concrete — in his life or his work — and, crucially, in a creative world filled with creative people, he did nothing creative. I suspect it was this sense of fraudulence, of worthlessness, that provoked the demons that drove him. He died in 1996 of a heart attack brought on by massive drug-abuse, at the age of fifty-two.